


Better With You

by vensre



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Modern AU, community: merlin_ficart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vensre/pseuds/vensre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwen and Morgana as fashion designers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better With You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You'd Look So Fine In Miniver](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1954) by nilecrocodile. 



> Written for [merlin_ficart](http://community.livejournal.com/merlin_ficart/)'s [challenge #3](http://community.livejournal.com/merlin_ficart/tag/challenge%20%233), with thanks to [NileCrocodile](http://nilecrocodile.livejournal.com/) for letting me run with [this inspiring picture](http://nilecrocodile.deviantart.com/art/you-d-look-so-fine-in-miniver-139139078).
> 
> Epic props to my writing support team, who each in their own way acted as beta, cheerleader, and supplier of momentum: [themadlurker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themadlurker), [magog_83](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magog_83), [lunchy_munchy](http://community.livejournal.com/munchinglunch/), and [yue_ix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yue_ix). \o/
> 
> And thanks to my sister, who knew what she was talking about so I could sound a bit like I knew what I was talking about.
> 
> Sorry, Arthur, I totally cut out your cameo.

The party lasts well into the night, long past the time their studios and workrooms are usually locked and dark. The nomination paper is affixed by a magnet to one of the hanging lamps in the center of the design office, and people from other departments cram in to celebrate, bringing whatever food they have on hand: a few chilled bottles of wine are scavenged from the boot of Mary's car, and someone — probably Merlin — has ordered in a sushi tray. Gwen's heart is still beating fast hours after the announcement; the adrenaline rush renews itself over and over as her mind lights on new complications.

"These are all good things," Morgana admonishes her. She has backed Gwen into the office's sole armchair, in the corner of the pattern room, and is sitting on her lap, probably to prevent any more of Gwen's attempts to organise other people's desks in a fit of nervous industriousness.

"Not that it's not good news, of course," Gwen continues. "But you know we can't skip another season — we should never've done _that_ — there's too few of us to put out a line _and_ work on costuming, because we really can't afford to hire anyone new without another film project, but we couldn't manage a project without more people, and the exposure is bound to change demand, probably unpredictably..."

"Mordred's internship is almost over. We can bring him on full time, since he's getting along well, and get two more interns to start with." Morgana smooths her thumb up over Gwen's forehead. "Gwen, it's all right! Put off the logistics until tomorrow, we can panic about it together then if you like."

"That's nice of you, but—" Out in the main office, someone puts Dragostea Din Tei on the stereo, to noises of approval and dismay.

"We'll have to design something new, yeah?" Morgana sets her chin atop Gwen's head. "For the red carpet."

"Naomi said that very dark violet shade was about to come in. It would be perfect on you," Gwen says, distracted enough to clasp her arms around Morgana's waist and lean into the warmth of her, for a moment. "Maybe princess sleeves?"

"Use some of the same lines as the costumes from Once And Future Queen, yes. And rose, I think, for you. Or coral. Lace at the cuffs." One of Morgana's hands closes around Gwen's wrist, probably measuring.

"Morgana," Gwen says, frowning. "I am not the one who was invited. If you're doing a dress for the ceremony, make it for yourself."

"The award is for both of our work. You should be there."

"I don't even like to sit at the back at fashion shows! What would I do on the red carpet at the British Academy? It was your project."

" _Ours_ ," Morgana insists, and, "Come with me. It'd mean more to me if you're there."

"I can't tell if you two are working back here or about to snog," Ewan says from the doorway as he flicks on the overhead light. Gwen startles; Morgana doesn't. "Or both?"

"Both," says Morgana lightly, then slides off Gwen's lap and holds out her hands. Gwen accepts the help up; her legs have sort of gone to sleep, not that she's about to say so.

When they rejoin the small throng that makes up the fashion house Sorcerouss — twenty or so designers, dressmakers, and pattern cutters, three intrepid members of the financial department, and Merlin — cheers go up again.

  


* * *

  


"How do you get ink on yourself every time?"

Gwen shakes herself out of her colouring trance. She peers down at her papers, and turns her hands over. "The marker? I haven't this time."

Morgana comes closer, eyes lit up with amusement. "It's on your chin. You look like you've been eating berries or dabbling in vampirism." She licks her thumb and rubs at Gwen's chin before tilting her head up to give her a smacking kiss. They grin at each other. "What are you working on?"

"Some of Naomi's forecasts, just colours and details." Gwen flips through a few of the dried drawings to show Morgana, and waves a hand at the one that still might smear.

"I have my red carpet dress nearly finished," Morgana says, head tipped thoughtfully.

"On paper?"

"Yes."

"What were you sewing? I heard the machine going."

"You'll see."

Morgana tugs Gwen's shirt up in the back, prompting her to squirm away. "Morgana!"

"The door's bolted," Morgana says mildly.

Gwen looks her opinion of that.

"I want to try something on you." Morgana kisses her spine, above the collar of her shirt. "When you wear my clothes, I like them better." Another kiss, higher, then she rests her lips against the nape of Gwen's neck.

"All right. Yes," Gwen says in a rush, and Morgana's excited intake of breath makes her feel like she's agreed to something much more significant than another day of amateur modelling.

She shucks off her shirt and lets Morgana dress her, looking down at the fluted trim and trying idly to identify the exact colour of the fabrics: bittersweet, she decides, and the sash is pale gold.

"This is it," Morgana says. "Well, I'm planning long sleeves as well. Do you like it?"

"For the awards ceremony?" When it's pinned the bodice fits Gwen's waist and shoulders perfectly, leaving no hope that Morgana could intend it for herself.

"That's right."

"I might have known this colour was meant for me." Gwen sounds a bit grumpy even to her own ears. The prospect of crowds and lights and constant attention still horrifies her, although Gwen keeps revisiting a daydream of walking arm in arm with Morgana through it all, which is definitely helping.

"Hold still," Morgana singsongs.

"I'm not a model! Or a mannequin." But Gwen stays as still as she can and lets Morgana make neat, quick stitches to secure one side of the seam, keeps her arm arched as fingertips feel over a soft span of skin not so much ticklish as simply vulnerable. Morgana's hand curves around her ribs — holds the fabric (and Gwen) in place.

"It doesn't sit right in front," Morgana says with studied absentness, smoothing her other hand down over Gwen's hip and forward, palm over the hollow.

"Don't tease," Gwen says on a quick breath. She turns and catches Morgana's mouth with her own, ungentle, more of a bite than a kiss.

The fabric falls loose. Morgana's fingers slip inside. Gwen spares no more than a second for relief that the door is locked.

  


* * *

  


Gwen wakes alone, and stretches out a hand in half-asleep surprise to touch the cold space beside her. They share a flat, although not a bedroom, and every night brings a new negotiation as to which bed they'll end up in; this shouldn't be enough to wake her, but when she fell asleep Morgana was here.

Morgana is a difficult sleeper at best. Their shared studio is separate from either of their bedrooms, in case Morgana gives up on rest and wants to work. When she does sleep, it could be in Gwen's bed, her own, or sprawled with absurd elegance across the sofa. She wakes from nightmares like a drowning swimmer hitting the surface. Sometimes she drags Gwen into her arms and sometimes she refuses to be touched.

Gwen pulls on one of Morgana's soft cardigans, and wanders down the hall to the studio. A bar of light spreads from beneath the door, which sits pushed to. Gwen shoulders her way in, making enough noise not to startle Morgana. Morgana looks up from her place tucked into the loveseat, her hair falling over her shoulders and her glasses sliding down her nose. She sets the sketchpad she's been scribbling on aside.

"Are you too excited?" Gwen asks, padding across the rug and sinking into the remaining space on the sofa, curling against Morgana's knees.

"Far too excited," Morgana says, and her eyes drift to the dress forms standing by the drawing board, the ones that hold the first-draft versions of the next day's red carpet costumes. The finished dresses are waiting for morning in the studio at Sorcerouss. "I didn't write a speech."

"You didn't?"

"No, it didn't actually seem real until," she checks the display on her phone, "right about midnight. Not a very convenient night for insomnia, I know."

"The occasion seems pretty reasonable," Gwen says, and bites down a tremendous yawn.

"You should go back to bed. Tomorrow comes early."

"I'd rather sit with you," says Gwen.

 

 

the end


End file.
